


Captain Redbeard

by grimmfairy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, John is a sailor, M/M, Pirate!lock, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Sherlock is a pirate, brief Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-21 14:41:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1554017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimmfairy/pseuds/grimmfairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a ship's doctor on a Navy ship. Sherlock is a feared and respected pirate that attack's John's ship. In exchange for letting John's ship go free, John's captain offers him up as a hostage and Sherlock accepts. What happens next...well, you can guess. navydream got me thinking about pirate!lock so i wrote a quick thing. Sherlock and John getting to know each other is always good.<br/>No sex on camera.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NavyDream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NavyDream/gifts).



> I may be convinced to add to this story at a later date.
> 
> Also, please excuse the modern dialogue. I am not even going to pretend I know how pirates spoke in olden times. Go with it.

John Hamish Watson of the Royal Navy was not a coward. After all, unlike his imbecile of a captain who was born into privilege, he worked hard and fought in many a battle at sea. He had the limp and the scar to show for it. He took pride in his beloved ship, but John Watson was no fool and he was no one's servant, as his captain seemed to think. John was just the ship's doctor, a position that he had all but been forced into by his family's debt to the crown. He had no money or prestige, something that he was never allowed to forget. Of course, when a ship flying the the black flag has its guns pointed at you, it's easier to forget.

That is how John Watson, ship's doctor, ended up here staring down the most feared and famous pirate of recent times. No one knew his real name, only that he went by the name Captain Redbeard, though he was clean shaven and raven haired. He seemed to treat piracy as his own personal joke. At this exact moment though, "Captain Redbeard" was sizing John up from behind his desk.

"Tell me something," He said, his fingers steepled under his chin. "How does it feel to know your captain gave you up as a prisoner to me to save his ship, knowing that I was likely to kill you as soon as you stepped foot on my ship?"

John remained silent, standing at attention out of habit in front of this man. He had curly black hair that was long enough to fall into his eyes but not long enough to touch his shoulder. A black rag held the worst of it back from his eyes, one of which had an old scar running down the side.

"There's no need to be so formal," Sherlock leaned back in his chair. "You didn't enjoy your employment with the Royal Navy because you don't agree with the way they treat prisoners and the miserable pay they give their sailors. You, however, are not paid, are you? Is it your father's debt you are trying to pay off? No, mother or sister, maybe both. Your captain was almost eager to get rid of you. Why is that? It was not because you're incompetent or lazy if the state of your hands is anything to go by. A decent enough fighter, obviously, though old wound to your shoulder and a limp caused by an improperly set bone suggest that you frequently take on more than you should. And yet your captain practically laid you at my feet and took off running. What did you do to make him hate you so? Did you rebuff certain...advances?" The mysterious man smiled devilishly. Even as the blush crept over his cheeks, John couldn't help but be amazed.

"How-You.." John stuttered, watching the man's smile grow. The crew member standing behind him (to protect the captain from him?) snickered. "That was amazing."

"Surprising, that's not usually what people say," Redbeard said with a deep laugh. John shivered at the sound, though whether it was fear or something else, he didn't take the time to analyze it to much. "You're very well educated for a destitute ship's doctor."

"You're very well educated for a pirate," John fired back, expecting to struck for his insolence. But no blow to the head was forthcoming, so he pressed on. "You seem to know a lot about me. What about you? You're well educated, clean-shaven, and your clothes are worn but expensive. Who are you?"

"You interest me, John Watson," The man said, standing from his desk and stepping around it to stand face to face (well, face to chin) with his prisoner. "Your ship is long gone without you. Your captain is a coward, but then again you already knew that. I will offer you a deal. Stay on my ship as a doctor until we reach the next port, and you will be free to go."

"Or?" John asked cautiously, he was pretty sure he knew the other option.

"Or you can go overboard," Redbeard shrugged. "Your choice."

"You want me...to be your ship's doctor. Really?" John raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Is that why you didn't kill me? Why you took me on board in the first place?"

"Come with me," A swish of a long clock and John was left to scurry after the long figure as quickly as his limp would allow him. John followed his captor through the ship into what looked like the sleeping quarters for the crew. One greying man was lying on a makeshift cot, a bloodstained bandage on his leg. Another was sitting against the side of the ship's wall with all the signs of scurvy. John surveyed the injured and sick, and turned to Redbeard.

"Where's the man who bandaged his leg?"

"Dead," Redbeard's upper lip curled into a snarl. "He was hanged for piracy."

"Captain? This the doctor who's supposed to get me fixed up?" The man with the bandaged leg called out. "Name's Lestrade."

"John."

"Welcome aboard," Lestrade fake-saluted him.

"It wasn't by choice," John retorted, shooting a glance at Redbeard.

"It never is," Lestrade answered cheerfully.

"John, when you have a chance after tending to my men, please come see me in my quarters," Redbeard turned to leave.

"Captain Red-" John was cut off by the man's piercing stare and a hand over his mouth.

"Stop talking. We both know you've chosen to stay on. You can't bear to see someone in pain when you know you can help," The raven-haired man pushed some errant curls out of his eyes, and John followed the motion with his eyes, trying desperately not to stare. "Remember. My quarters after you're done."

* * *

Life for John Watson became a parade of days spent tending to the sick crew members, helping on deck where he was needed, eating with the crew, and every night he sat in the captain's quarters and played chess with Redbeard while they talked about anything and everything. He had traded his stuffy uniform for a loose, flowing shirt and black trousers that were far more comfortable to work in. John had to admit, even for a crew of undisciplined pirates, Redbeard's men had so far treated him with far greater respect than those of the Navy. Like he mattered to them, like he should be respected. And from what Lestrade had told him so far about the captain, the pirates looted merchant ships and had sunk their fair share of Navy ships (only after being fired upon first), something that became easier to understand with each passing day. They were good men who had answered the call of the sea without the chains of the Navy. 

But today he had to make a choice because tomorrow the Hudson (name of the ship) was pulling into a busy trading port for supplies and John had to decide to stay or leave his captors. But captors didn't really seem like the right word anymore. He had never been restrained or hurt in any way. John paced outside Redbeard's quarters anxiously. He had come to enjoy the man's company far more than he would have cared to admit. It wasn't the meek spark of friendship that warmed his blood whenever he saw the tall man.

"Ah, John. You're late," Redbeard scolded as he came up behind John, startling him. John swallowed nervously as he followed him into the captain's quarters. "You've come to talk to me about leaving my ship tomorrow. Dull."

"Ah...sorry?" John shook his head. "Wait, no. I'm not sorry. I'm not even supposed to be here. And tomorrow-"

"Would you prefer to go back to being looked down upon by your ship mates?" Redbeard asked softly, looking for all the world like a predatory animal. "Avoiding your captains unwelcome attentions?"

"Attentions? What do you mean?" John hedged, breaking eye contact. He felt a hand lifting his chin gently until his blue eyes unwillingly met with stormy grey ones.

"You know exactly what I mean. Your captain took a very unusual interest in you, didn't he?" Redbeard's eyes glinted dangerously as he started backing John towards the wall. "It isn't that hard to imagine."

"It's not like I don't know what goes on...in dark corners" John blushed fiercely as his back hit the wall and Redbeard's chest was just barely an inch from his own.

"But you've never found your own... _dark corner_ _?"_ Redbeard's mouth twitched in a half-smile when John looked away. "Oh, so you _have."_

John shrugged. When he was at sea, it seemed a lot less important who filled his needs.

"I was lonely, had a bit to drink. He pulled me into a corner, and I let him. It meant nothing," John added quickly. Why was he explaining himself? This man didn't have a claim over him.

"And women?" Redbeard moved even closer, dipping his head down so his lips were almost touching John's.

"Nothing," John whispered. Redbeard cupped John's face tight enough to show control, but gently so John could pull away if he needed to. John sucked in a deep breath. If he did this there was no turning back.

"If you walk away and never come back tomorrow, I will not stop you," Redbeard trailed a calloused hand down the back of John's neck, playing with the little hairs there. The ship rocked gently around them, the smell of salt water and a faint smell of rotten wood filled John's nose. Suddenly he felt like he needed air. He couldn't get enough oxygen. And Redbeard was so close to him, this man that he had spent hours getting to know and yet he still didn't know his name.

"What do I have to go back to?" John said with a pained smile. And it was true. He didn't miss his family. He knew he should, but he didn't.

"Nothing," Redbeard growled as he attacked John's mouth. John reciprocated with equal force, although with much less experience.

"Redbeard..." John gasped as the broke apart for air. His companion snorted.

"Call me Sherlock. Redbeard was my dog's name."

"Sherlock. I like it," John said, pulling Sherlock's head back down for another kiss. Sherlock pulled him backwards towards the desk, all while exploring John's warm mouth. John allowed Sherlock to spin him around back pressing into the desk, as Sherlock kissed down his neck leaving a burning trail with his lips. "We shouldn't be doing this."

"No, of course not. It's wrong," Sherlock's voice was muffled by John's neck and his hands found the hem of John's shirt. John raised his arms to allow Sherlock to lift his shirt off. It landed somewhere with a soft thud, and Sherlock's hands roamed carefully around John's torso, taking special notice of the large scar that marked John's shoulder. A sword, Sherlock thought briefly to himself. A lesser wound would have killed many men. But not John.

"I should walk away tomorrow," John tangled his fingers in the unruly mass of curls. He looked at the flushed face of a man he barely knew and yet had already decided he would follow forever. Sherlock held his gaze, eyes dark and unreadable. He was teetering on the edge of a cliff. If Sherlock asked him to jump, he would. Sherlock had begun to pull back. "Don't stop." John sat on the desk, pulling Sherlock to stand between his legs.

"Never." Sherlock practically _purred_ into John's ear. John _shuddered_ under the spell of Sherlock's deep voice. "Let go, John."

"I always wanted to be a pirate," John fell over the edge. And he never looked back. 

**Quick fic for navydream on tumblr cause she's AWESOME at stuff. And apparently likes pirates.**


	2. Chapter 2

There were times when John greatly wished he could toss his Captain and lover overboard. Sherlock could be incredibly rude to those around him, and while the rest of the crew seemed used to it, John often followed after him apologizing. It was also difficult for John to get used to having very little privacy. Sherlock seemed to know everything about him, even things he hadn't realized, and had a habit of blurting embarrassing details out to the crew. John would laugh with the rest of them, red-faced, and then slink away to Captain's quarters. 

But there were more good times than bad.

John often woke in the morning to find Sherlock lying beside him, studying him intensely as one would observe and admire a priceless work of art. In these moments of quiet, of just John and Sherlock without the pretense of "Captain Redbeard" or wounds that needed healing, John saw a side of the dark haired pirate that few ever saw. Sherlock would sometimes run a hand over John's arm, twining his fingers with John's, or through his hair, as if cataloging every part of him. And occasionally it would become more passionate.

The first time John heard Sherlock play his violin, they were up on the deck and Sherlock was playing for the drunken crew after a day of relieving a merchant ship of its Spanish gold. Sherlock's black hair fell into his eyes as he swayed and moved with the vigorous playing, and the crew danced around singing a song John had never heard before. Later, Sherlock played him a slow, mournful melody in the privacy of his quarters.

"When did you learn to play?" John asked that night, wrapped in Sherlock's intoxicated embrace. Sherlock shifted, his arms stiffening around John.

"Before I was a pirate, I was the son of a wealthy English lord. I wanted for nothing: clothing, servants, tutors. My brother and I had endless lessons in reading, languages, writing, politics, science, music..." Sherlock trailed off, his voice thoughtful. The darkness around them, lit only by a small lantern, was heavy and stifling. "My father was cold and calculating. Where was I going to work, who would I marry, what would I become. My brother was the perfect son for them. He apprenticed with the right people, betrothed himself to a very well-connected young lady with the personality of spoon, and is well on his way to becoming my father's successor. I on the other, was on the receiving end of many punishments."

The cold way Sherlock said punishments made John's stomach turn. Sherlock hadn't directly answered his question, and John decided to attribute the amount of information the usually mysterious man had told him to the amount of drink he'd shared with the crew. John turned in Sherlock's embrace to see Sherlock's slightly illuminated face. Sherlock had lost his closed-off mask, and he was wearing a look of such vulnerability that John felt himself melt. He pushed away slightly and rolled Sherlock onto his back, climbing on top. 

Sherlock started to smile as his face was peppered with small kisses. He reached up and pulled John closer, switching their positions so he was straddling John.

That night left John with marks that made even the most lecherous of the crew-mates snicker in half-embarrassment. Sherlock of course made sure to "accidentally" pull on the sleeve of John's shirt many times to reveal the claiming marks on his collarbone that Sherlock had left in a particularly passionate moment.

* * *

 

They run into John's old Navy captain one day, in charge of a larger ship. In a fit of courage, the man ordered his new crew to attack the pirate ship to "rescue" John, but John knew he just wanted to be the one to take down the famous Captain Redbeard.

The _Hudson_ is victorious when her canons take out the Navy ship's main mast, managing to get away with only injuries and no casualties. After bandaging the cut on his hairline so it wouldn't bleed into his eyes while he worked, John was working on washing and bandaging the wounds of the ship's cook when Sherlock stood next to him and shed his jacket, revealing a long gash starting at his shoulder and ending in the middle of his sternum. It wasn't deep, but it was bleeding enough to make John wish they could go back and kill the coward that had put it there. Sherlock had fussed and whined about the limited activity John let him do, bothering Lestrade while he was acting Captain and annoying anyone who would sit still long enough to listen to his deductions when John was busy with the others' injuries. But he follows John's strict instructions to keep the bandages clean and to make sure to change them every day. They have to dock in a seaport to get supplies. John goes because he's the least "pirate-looking". Sherlock laughs and laughs when John tells him how confused the shopkeeper was when he bought all of their bandages and paid with Spanish gold.

One crew member dies of infection, and John reads last rites over the body because he's the closest thing to a priest they have.

When Sherlock has finally healed, John traced the pink scar that Sherlock had on his shoulder.

"A wound like this has killed lesser men," John said, words unspoken hanging in the air between them. Sherlock just smiled with glittering eyes.

* * *

The roaring laughter in the dirty tavern was nearly deafening. John sat with Lestrade at a table that was sticky with John didn't want to know what, and he was riding a very pleasant buzz as women in the colors of their trade smiled and giggled at his grey-hair companion. Lestrade currently had one woman sitting on his lap as he continued his slurred conversation John. The change in volume was immediately noticeable when the room quieted down to near silence.

John looked around, suddenly alert. A well-dressed man flanked by guards was striding towards the crowd, side-stepping the tables and unwashed bodies in his way with a look of utter indifference that looked familiar. John nudged Lestrade.

"Get the Captain," John whispered. Lestrade nodded and disappeared into the crowd behind him. The well-dressed man's presence made many of the rougher tavern-goers edgy and nervous, and whispers broke out. Some left, giving John the impression that they knew better than to try and mess with this man.

"John Watson," A silky voice came from the man as he stopped in front of John. John just stared up at him silently. "That's who you are, isn't it?"

"You seem to already know that, so why ask?" John gestured for him to sit down. The man wrinkled his nose minutely at the dirty chair and remained standing. John smirked at his obvious discomfort.

"You don't seem afraid," The man said curiously, studying John carefully. John shrugged.

"You seem to think that a few men and fancy clothes make you scary," John answered. "What do you want?"

"Information," The man said smoothly. "You are the ah... _comrade_ of the man known as Redbeard."

Around them, the tavern noise was beginning to build back up as the patrons got used to the presence.

"Again, not exactly uncommon knowledge," John said. "So I ask, what do you want?"

"Like I said before: I want information. I worry about him."

"Really?" John asked dryly.

"Of course. That's what brothers do, isn't it, Mycroft?" Sherlock's voice sounded from behind John. John kept the relief off his face.

"Ah, the famous Captain Redbeard," Mycroft sighed. "Brother, when will you give up this foolish pirate nonsense and come back where you belong?"

"Brother mine, you would do well to recall that it was father who kicked me out in the first place. Has he found a suitable bride for me yet? The daughter of some duke perhaps? How's your wife? Then again, you wouldn't know. Do you still sleep in separate rooms? Awfully hard to produce an heir that way." Sherlock gripped John's shoulder. "Don't come after me again."

John followed Sherlock out of the tavern and back to the ship. Sherlock brislted with anger and his eyes were dark and dangerously blank.

"So that was your brother," John whistled. "I can see the resemblance."

"How so?" Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

"You're both idiots," John said lightly. Sherlock was silent for a moment before the tension leaked out of his shoulders and let a little light filter into his gaze.

"Yes, I suppose it runs in the family," Sherlock replied.

* * *

 

Five years came and went. They never once said they loved each other.

One night, when they were sweating and panting after their love-making, Sherlock asked John a question. The question he had hidden away in the furthest recesses of his mind.

"Do you ever regret staying that day? The day you could have walked away," Sherlock asked quietly, his voice slightly muffled as his face was pressed against John's shoulder.

John cupped Sherlock's face and lifted his gaze. He didn't anything. As always, he didn't need to.

Sherlock could see everything that gaze held.

 


End file.
